Chapter 10 Evie
EVIE
“Do you need anything before I head out?” he asks me.
I just shake my head.
“You’ve done enough,” I say, pulling the blanket around me even tighter. But it still falls off one shoulder, exposing my skin, and I swallow. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see him shift. Then he clears his throat.
“Call me if you need anything. And if you don’t mind just checking in every once in a while, that would be great. Todd will be here soon. He will be watching the door but can also take you anywhere you want to go.”
I force a shy smile and nod.
“You worried about me or something, Everett?”
His face grows more serious.
“Always,” he says without hesitation. Our eyes lock, and then I watch as his eyes move over my face. Then he disappears out the door and down the hall.
He kept the picture of us.
It’s my favorite one.
I still have a copy of it. It’s in a frame, in a box, in the attic of my house.
That I share with my husband.
Shared.
God, I’m a fucking mess.
And if I were anywhere else in the world right now, I am certain that I would be absolutely panicking right now—which, maybe I still will be.
But Keaton makes me feel steady. And just like he always did when were kids, he’s the only person who makes me feel like I’m not alone.
I remember when I felt that way about Tanner. Like I was the only person he saw in any room we were in. But then bills got more expensive. Hours at the office got longer. The IVF cost a fucking fortune. And my body still couldn’t give us a baby.
And then the hormones made the pounds a little slower to fall off. And he stopped looking at me.
And then the drinking got worse.
And worse.
Until I started taking my birth control in secret again. Because I realized that I was scared. Scared of my own husband. And I was worried about what bringing a baby into that house might do.
I sit back down on the big couch, wrapping myself up in the blanket I’ve been living in since he brought me back here last night.
It’s ultrasoft, and it smells like Keaton.
So it’s sort of like I’m wrapping myself up in him.
And then, I drift off to sleep. Because when I wake up, it’s past lunch time.
I decide that, today, I’m going to rot in my billionaire best friend’s apartment.
I order some delivery, and Todd brings it in a little while later.
I grab the remote and turn the TV on, but before I can even scroll, my phone dings next to me. My heart starts racing. I move my eyes to the screen, but I let out a sigh of relief when my mother’s name flashes across the screen. She’s not my favorite person, but at least it’s not Tanner.
“Hi, Mom. How—”
“Did you leave him?” she asks me, a hint of panic in her voice.
I swallow. How the fuck does she know?
“What?”
“Did you leave Tanner last night?”
“Mom, how do you—”
“Yes or no?” she cuts me off again. I swallow back the lump that’s forming in my throat. I cry when I’m frustrated, and I can feel it coming.
“Yes,” I say simply. I’m not offering her any more.
“Oh, Genevieve,” she whispers on the other end, and I close my eyes. “What happened? Where are you?”
I would rather tell her every intimate detail of the downfall of my marriage than give her even the slightest clue as to where I am right now.
My parents loved telling people that I was friends with an Everett when I was a teenager.
So much so that we pretended we drifted apart at one point.
I would tell them I was with other friends when I was going to be with Keaton so they wouldn’t try to snap a photo or impose.
They were grown adults ogling after my friend because of his last name.
It always felt so icky. I was so protective of him when we were kids, and judging by the way my body is physically resisting giving any information on him, I guess I still am.
“In the city,” I say.
“What happened, Genevieve?”
Ugh. That name.
“He had a lot to drink. We had a big fight. I left,” I say.
“Well, are you going back?” she asks. Not, Are you okay? or Do you need anything? She just wants to know when I’m going back so she’s not at risk for having to explain where I am to the rest of the Long Island socialites that she so desperately wants to be a part of.
I feel my blood start to boil inside my veins.
She’s never put me first, now included.
“No, Mom. I’m not,” I say. I hear a sigh on the other end of the line then a whimper.
“Oh, Genevieve,” she says again. “I just…I can’t believe this. Are you sure? I mean, can’t you—”
“He threw a glass bowl at my feet and held me hostage in my own home. He held my arm so tight that it left a bruise. I’m not going back, Mom. And I’d appreciate some space while I figure out what’s next. I’ll call when I’m ready,” I say, and without another word, I end the call.
And then I feel it. I can’t hold them back any longer. And they’re not just tears. They are loud, aggressive, visceral sobs. Sobs for the woman who was stuck in that house with that man. Stuck in that marriage. Who didn’t feel worthy of leaving until right now.
I lower my head down to the couch cushions and let the tears fall, rolling off and soaking into the gray fabric. My phone dings again, and I hold my breath. I almost don’t look at it, but it dings again. And when I finally look down, I see it’s Keaton.
Todd says it sounds like you’re crying? Are you alright?
Todd. That traitor. I sniff and wipe my face, typing back furiously.
I’m all good. You know I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.
I send a laughing emoji, but I grow more anxious when he doesn’t answer. So I finally put my phone back and lie back down again. I let the tears flow but, this time, quietly. Fuckin’ Todd.
But in a few minutes, I jump up when I hear the front door open and shut.
I try desperately to wipe the tears from my soaked cheeks, but I’m not fast enough.
He walks into the living room, shimmying his coat off and kicking off his shoes.
He walks toward me with a brown paper bag and sets it on the coffee table.
I stare up at him, but all seeing him does is let the tears come hotter and heavier.
He sinks down onto the couch and wraps his arms around me, lying back so that I’m practically on his lap.
And then I just let myself cry. I soak his shirt while I cling to the only human who has ever made me feel like my tears mattered.
I cry for the little girl who wanted to change the world but became the woman who smiled even when she was unhappy.
I cry for the girl who thought it would get better when all it got was worse.
I cry for the girl who just wanted the people who were supposed to love her to give a shit.
We’re completely horizontal on the couch now, my head on his chest as he strokes my hair. Finally, I feel like I’ve gotten it all out—at least, for now.
“You hungry?” he whispers when my sobs have subsided. I nod and force out a laugh.
“Crying burns a lot of calories, ya know,” I say. He sits us upright, ignoring my quip and reaching for the bag.
“They may be cold, but I grabbed some cinnamon rolls,” he says. I look at him and smile. I know I look different than I did when we were kids…than I did when he last saw me. Tanner used to make comments whenever I’d grab something sweet. Keaton is bringing them home to me.
Home.
I really shouldn’t be using that term lightly.
This is not home. I don’t know where home is. But this isn’t it.
This isn’t even his home. This is just a stop on his quest to be back out west.
He walks into the kitchen and pulls down a plate then puts them in the microwave for a few seconds. I follow him in and take a seat at this massive island, and he sets the plate between us.
“Dig in,” he says, reaching for one of them and bringing it to his lips. He takes a big, messy bite, and the icing slips off his lips and back onto the plate. I smile as I watch him lick his lips. His lips are pretty.
And based on the zap that just struck, my vagina agrees.
I hesitantly reach in, and he gives me a look.
“You don’t want it?” he asks. I shake my head. It smells so good I’m practically
salivating. I just don’t want him to know how badly I want to eat it.
“No, I do. I just…”
His eyebrows knit together.
“You just what?”
I smile nervously, tucking my hair behind my ear.
“I probably shouldn’t, but—”
“Why not?” he asks. He’s just looking at me, his fingers still covered in icing. I swallow.
All of this feels so silly. My entire life has imploded, and I’m worrying about eating a fucking cinnamon roll?
But I guess after years of someone telling you that you shouldn’t, you start to believe it.
I lift my eyes to him, and I see something click in his. His jaw flexes, and his eyes move back forth. Then he looks up at me again.
“Do you want this, Evie?” he asks, his voice low. I bite my bottom lip, then I nod. He reaches his hand out and picks it up off the plate. Then he lifts it to my lips. “Then take it.” Our eyes lock, and I lean in, taking a long, painfully slow bite of it. And God, it’s good.
And there is something about the way he’s holding it for me, something about the look in his eyes, that sends that zap to my core again.